


A kiss...

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Kisses... [12]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 19:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16143689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: ... as a yes.





	A kiss...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliatori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> Prompts are from [this list](https://wrathofscribbles.tumblr.com/post/177169224758/send-me-a-ship-and-a-number-and-i-will-write-a).

“You sure about this?”

“… Yeah.”

“Because it isn’t for everyone and it’s alright if you want to back out –”

“Nyx, shut up.”

“Just checking in with you.”

“And I’ve already told you. I trust you.”

“Alright.”

But Nyx still works on his back, clever fingers hunting down the tension in his muscles, efficient and almost _cruel_ in the pressure they apply, the steady dig from the heel of a calloused hand.  A not-quite groan tumbles from his throat when the steady throb at the base of his skull is sought out, _worked out_ , turning him to putty and both hands bracketing his neck in warmth, the whiff of ozone sharp in his nose –

And the world shatters into crystalline shards and embers around him.

* * *

There’s chaos in warping, an unpredictability about it both stupid and dangerous to play with.  There’s something _wrong_ about needing a weapon as an anchor to aim for in the storm of magic sweeping one’s body up and away and _out_ of the physical realm, a point of absolute stillness to ground in even as threads of that power snap at the caster’s heels, eager to yank them _back_.  Warping is disorientating at best and deadly at worst from what he’s seen and heard, from Noctis puking his guts up to Glaives stretched out in the medical wing with broken bones or fractured skulls _or missing limbs_ , their focus lacking against the magic’s might, where it scrambles and turns in that someplace _other_  and… some don’t break through it at all.

That’s why he avoids touching it for so long, those empty bunks and broken families.  What good is a Shield if he’s swept under that current and battered against rocks one can’t see until the very last second?  What good is he as the last line of defence if he falls as the _first?_ But Noctis relies too heavily on his warping to cover long distances between he and his targets and Gladio physically _cannot_ keep up with him, it’s an impossible feat only the gods can accomplish – and so he eventually admits defeat and seeks out the Glaive to learn from.  Not Khara, not the _best_  who doesn’t struggle with it, but Ulric, the one who knows the rise and fall of warping all too well, the dangers of it, the _death_  in it, and still launches into the fray and fight of the magic anyway.

* * *

_“Some warning would have been nice!”_

“There _is no warning_  when it comes to warping, Gladio, sometimes it takes and sometimes it doesn’t.  The key is that you need to be focused and relaxed.”

He leans back against the wall and fixes Nyx with as hot a glare as he can muster with the sensation of ants crawling under his skin, the cramping in his stomach and the nausea tingling like acid at the back of his mouth as he swallows once, twice, made all the worse by the smell from the bucket clamped between his thighs.

 _Mind over matter, mind over matter, mind over matter_.

“And I suppose _relaxed_  is possible when you drag me into cartwheels through nowhere without warning?”  A dark look to match his own, and Nyx bares his teeth in an expression more snarl than smile.

“Warping is easier when you’re familiar with the sensations of it,” _like his entire body being shoved through a fucking cheese grater,_ “I’ll keep you right and keep that pretty face from being busted up.  You just focus on the feel of the magic - and learn how to trust something other than the weight of that weapon in your hands.  Might just save your life one day.”

“Fuck you.”

“Wine and dine me first, Romeo.”

And - he has absolutely _no_ response to that.  None.  Not a goddamn thing, even when the feral slash of Nyx’s mouth curves into a smirk.

Bastard.

* * *

So he continues with the lessons, daunting as they are, and familiarises himself with the electric snap of a warp through his bones, through his _blood_ , the vibrations that break him open and scatter his very sense of self to the wind, all while Nyx keeps hold of him.  Some days it’s simply a hand clamped tight around his, the other reaching for the weapon he’s embedded in a wall or the floor or a practice dummy or - once - misplaced through a window and into a suit of armour.  Other days Nyx bodily wraps himself around Gladio, arms thrown over his shoulders and legs tucked in around his hips, a solid weight at his back and cushioning their fall when the warp knocks him off his feet and sprawling backward, stunning him until all he can do is lie there in silence while Nyx breathes under him, the steady rise and fall of his chest a pillow for Gladio’s aching skull.  And yet other days, again, Nyx will _tackle_  him in the middle of a spar, drop out of his fighting stance and drive his shoulder squarely into Gladio’s stomach and slam the air straight out of his lungs and one moment he’s caught with the Glaive’s momentum - the next they’re free-falling through that place _other_ that’s dark and stifling and home to a presence that chills his bones and sends goosebumps over his skin, re-emerging a heartbeat later in a wash of phantom blue and embers that fill his nose with smoke, tumbling together, the momentum sending them over and over until the world spins and he can’t tell up from down when they crash into the practice mats set aside for this very purpose.

He continues with the lessons until he can keep his balance and bearings, until he can toss a practice dagger across the room, the training grounds, the _courtyard_  without pause or second thought and chase it down as only those with magic can, keep his feet under him at the end of it, his stomach contents where they belong... some days, more often than not.  Until, one afternoon, he warps a second after Nyx does, his path sheering through the Glaive’s, and takes him down in the middle of it.

He continues with the lessons, until one day he says “sooooo, about that wining and dining...”

* * *

_Think you can handle me, big guy?_

It’s a comment made in jest (sort of), a rather _tame_ attempt at ruffling the feathers inked over his shoulders -  _he didn’t think anything would come of it_ \- and yet now he’s caught under Gladio’s bulk, hands pinned above his head and dark eyes fixed on his, wicked mouth curving into a smirk and -

“Try me, Ulric.”

\- and it all _escalates_ from there, nothing gentle or tender in the kiss that rips the air from his lungs and all good sense from his mind, lips and teeth and tongue taking his challenge for what it is and _obliterating_ it even as Gladio says yes without uttering a single word, pressing him down into the mats in silent command to _yield_  and Nyx arches, _burns,_ under him.

It’s so much better than warping practice.


End file.
